Absolutely nobody has asked me to share my thoughts about the most pressing political and economic issue in Britain right now, so I thought I would get my revenge on you all.

Everything that follows is written from the point of view that a) I still have a great fondness for my country of birth and the people I know there, and b) I am firmly of the opinion that leaving the EU is an enormous mistake that will be regretted no matter how it comes about.

First, contrary to much that is written about jolly old England coming to the assistance of Johnny Foreigner in 1939, Britain (not just England) didn't act against Hitler purely out of a sense of 'doing the right thing'; quite correctly it was believed that the mad Austrian would one day try to invade Britain as well, despite his platitudes. Britain declared war just in time to be able to hold his forces at bay (with amazing bravery and fortitude) long enough to make useful strategic alliances. The courage of that generation should not be forgotten, but let's be honest about what happened, and why. Let’s also remind ourselves of just how long ago all that was, and how different the world is today.

The Germans have never lost sight of the horrors caused by that generation, and they have created a mighty economic machine from the rubble of their decimated country, even when it was so cruelly physically and culturally divided. They deserve credit for the reformation of their culture and economy, and for doing so as part of a greater, inclusive Europe. The war was over nearly 75 years ago; let it be.

Third, it's interesting to be reminded that the UK tried for ten years to join the EEC - I wonder why that was? Britain was bankrupted following the war, and genuinely needed to be part of the union in order to get the economic engines running again. The politicians of the time - flawed as they clearly were - understood the sense of that, and tried very hard to bring it about. Had that not happened, I suspect that Britain may today have ended up far lower down on the list of global economic powers. As things stand, it retains a seat within the G7. At least for now.

Next: the Brexit mess is one entirely of Britain's own making. The power-greedy right wing of the Tory party - and others - have propagated and encouraged xenophobia in order for individuals to satisfy their own desires. Myths about Britain’s might have been taken out of storage, burnished and presented as truth. History has been distorted to justify reasoning (always a disturbing tactic). Many of the 'Leave' arguments have been discredited along with the principles of how that campaign was conducted. The upshot of that was that voters did not get the chance to make a decision based upon truth, and instead did so having had their more base instincts - chiefly, fear of difference - well and truly agitated. How very sad. 1930s political strategies still have some uses, so it seems.

European countries do not, in my opinion, owe Britain any more favours. The war was a very long time ago, and the lessons of it (principally that fighting and division are in nobody’s best interest) are obvious to anyone willing to open their eyes. To keep Europe beholden to Britain's actions in 1939 would, I suggest, negate the essence of that mythical 'doing the right thing' for the sake of it (even if that was the case). You don't, after all, do the right thing just so you can - for ever and a day - remind others that they owe you.

There are calmer, sensible and even conciliatory arguments out there in Europe, but those voices tend not to be shouting when others are yelling from rooftops. The EU doesn't have to keep trying to pull its errant child along with it; let the tantrum happen and let's see what comes of it. Hopefully, a learning opportunity will arise from these particular ashes. Personally, I wish that more sensible heads would prevail and that the vote would be held again, with more facts to hand and a more clear vision of the consequences available to voters. I doubt that will happen, so as they say over here, it's probably time to suck it up, buttercup! I just hope that the British economy -and the well being of my family and friends still in Britain - can survive this whole sorry episode.

Seventeen years ago, I was a proud father watching my eldest child as he took part in his very first school sports day. I harboured traditional wishes for my son; I hoped that he would be successful in at least one of the day’s events, and that he would enjoy the feeling of achievement which so often accompanies a sporting win. He was a fast runner – just as I had been when I was a child – and the chances for success were, I thought, very high. He had many friends and he would surely be a popular winner, with – I hoped – some associated benefits for his self-esteem and confidence.

I watched, my heart thumping in my chest, as the group of boys slowly formed into a higgledy-piggledy starting line. I was there with him, vibrating with nerves (just as I always had when I too had stood on the start line so many times, so long before), disproportionately anxious that he should win. “Ready!” shouted the teacher, and my heart doubled its efforts. “Get set!” she called, and my legs trembled beneath me. “GO!” She dropped her arm, and they were off.Twelve sets of feet skipped across the lush green grass of an uneven English field. Small bodies responded to the demand for speed, and almost immediately, my son began to pull away from the pack. Jumping up and down on the spot, I watched with joy and then dismay as he shot towards the finish line but was rapidly overtaken by a small boy moving at a speed far in excess of that which was fair. The usurper passed my offspring and blazed across the line, a smouldering line of scorched grass in his wake.

Curses.

A few minutes later after ribbons and drinks had been handed around, I sat on the grass with my red-faced and slightly sweaty little trooper.“I thought you were going to win!” I said, as cheerfully as I could manage.“Yeah, me too.” he said, looking down and irritably pulling blades of grass out of the ground.“Oh well.” I said, the soul of fatherly wisdom. “Sometimes there are just faster runners out there ready to surprise you.”

I’d already lost him. He’d spotted a friend across the field, and in a trice was up and away to greet him. I smiled. Kids.Perhaps an hour later we were walking home after the afternoon’s activity and I wanted to make sure that second place hadn’t become a problem for my first born. “What was his name then?” I asked. “The little boy who won the race?”

Taken off guard, Anthony looked at me, puzzled. “Huh?”

Not in the mood to drag out the conversation any further, I tried to make it easy for him to remember what had happened. “What’s the little black boy’s name? The one who won the race?” Anthony stopped walking and looked at me, profound confusion written across his face. “Who daddy?” Mildly irritated, I tried again; “…the little black boy. He was really fast, wasn’t he?” My son looked at me as if he was dealing with an idiot. “Do you mean Eko?” “Is that his name? Eko?” Obviously still questioning my sanity, Anthony nodded. “Eko won the race, daddy, but…” and he shook his head as if to rid himself of an annoying insect; “…Eko isn’t black!”

He continued to walk home, leaving me to stare after him as the truth dawned on me. Anthony had no idea that his new friend Eko – his family having arrived from Ghana only weeks before – was different in any way. At five years old, he didn’t see the difference between himself and Eko (although Eko did have a troubling tendency to run very fast indeed). At the age of five, he was wiser than I.

I had just begun the ruination of that beautiful condition. With one clumsy question, I’d begun the construction of a difference between my son and his friend; one that until that moment he hadn’t been aware of – and in a perfect world would never need to be aware of.

I shared my experience with a black colleague and friend the next day. By the end of the story, we were both in tears. In different ways we had both witnessed a beautiful part of a human’s nature, and we were both intensely aware that it – just as Eko’s brown skin had been to Anthony – had hitherto been invisible and unknown. I’d ruined it.

So much of what our society teaches us could – or should - remain forever unknown…some things we need never become aware of.

Domestic accidents come in many shapes and sizes and I’ve had my fair share. During my life, I have also come in many shapes and sizes, ranging from the mewling babe-in-arms to the small-for-his age schoolboy all the way to the oversized I-wish-I-had-more-clothes-that-still-fit-me incarnation of the present day. My domestic accidents through the years have had a wide range of causes, but most have involved bleeding.

Among certain physiological traits (e.g. a mildly cleft chin, the family backside), my father bequeathed me other things. One of them is a genuine talent for drawing blood when performing the most mundane and non-injurious domestic task. I can quite easily, for example, end up interestingly injured after performing any gardening job, vehicle repair (I have to fix the brakes on the truck soon, and I don’t relish the idea) or even merely moving items from one room to another.

Cooking (and proximity to those pesky sharp knives) has taught me many bloody lessons over the decades, to the point where the overwhelming majority of meals I cook these days are free from any of my haemoglobin. These days I’m pretty safe around knives.

Yesterday’s offering, for example, promised to be a bloodless, injury-free meal that I have prepared many times ( a Bolognese sauce paired with a spaghetti squash, for the curious). Our little house was filled with the heady aromas of herbs and garlic coming together like old friends, and all that remained was for me to prepare the squash. It sounds easy enough. It seemed easy enough.

So, when the football-sized squash exploded in my face, it was something of a surprise. A shock, even. “Argh!” I shouted helpfully as the squash gave up its structural integrity in a very sudden and immediate fashion, accompanied by a sound which – to my best recollection – was a mixture of a “Whump!” with a hint of “Pop!” and a smidgen of “Kablooey!”. In fairness, I was distracted at the time by the boiling squash matter spattering my face, my glasses and the exposed skin offered up courtesy of my Tee-shirt.

“Well, that was different.” I thought, as my wife leapt from her chair and towards the ‘fridge for some ice. “I’m OK! I’M OK!” I yelled through my new attractive veil of stringy squash matter, my priority suddenly being a need to avoid ice cubes being applied by my lovely lady with her usual enthusiasm for such things. I’d no idea if I was actually OK, I just knew that I didn’t want ice cubes. Anywhere.

The ensuing little dance around the kitchen to the tune of my wife yelling “Take your shirt off!” gave me just enough time to check my sensors for signs of damage, to thoroughly alarm our elderly neighbours, and then to convince my would-be Florence Nightingale that the application of freezing things was not required. Her raised eyebrow, however, betrayed a certain level of skepticism. Today’s interesting blister on the inside of my right arm may just indicate that she had a point.